


(I saved you) the gift of empathy

by minkhollow



Series: your memory seems like a living thing [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley Was Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Gen, Post-Apocanope, who remembers what about the Rebellion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:27:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23743813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minkhollow/pseuds/minkhollow
Summary: The Archangels have claimed since the Rebellion ended that demons don't remember their time in Heaven.  Like most of their other claims, this fails to stand up to scrutiny.
Series: your memory seems like a living thing [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1773067
Comments: 31
Kudos: 160





	1. did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> There are two things I've really wanted to play with since we got TV Omens - whether demons remember their time in Heaven, and the Raphael Headcanon - and they collided in this little monster that's eaten my brain for the last month. Throw in a side of 'statistical unlikelihood that Crowley and Aziraphale were the _only_ celestials who objected to Armageddon, just the only ones in a position to do something about it,' and here we are.

Neriel is the best healer Heaven has, these days.

And therein lies the problem. No one can talk about her skill without at least implying the ‘these days,’ like it’s somehow her fault that she was the best one standing when the dust settled after the Rebellion. Not that anyone would say that to her face, of course. She survived the battle in one piece, so clearly she did something right.

(No one survived Lucifer’s rebellion truly unscathed. Neriel’s no expert on the mind - that was Talya, and she’s gone now - but she knows that much. Everyone is carrying scars they barely know how to acknowledge; most angels follow Michael’s lead, and pretend there _are_ no scars in the first place.)

Once, she’d thought Uriel, at least, would understand. Their losses seemed the most similar to her own, what with two of the Archangels lost to the insurrection, and Michael and Gabriel have never been all that approachable. But Uriel seemed oddly cold when Neriel asked them if they planned to contact anyone who Fell, not to mention like they didn’t understand the purpose of the question.

“None of them will remember their time here,” they’d said. “Why would I torment myself for no reason?”

She’s done her best to train anyone who’s shown aptitude in the time since, but she’s not a natural teacher. And it’s not all bad; no one’s ever expected her to jump into combat, given that they need medics on hand in the event of another major battle.

Neriel is the best healer Heaven has, these days, but her successes are always measured in the light of losing her mentor and her best friend to Lucifer’s lies (to say nothing of poor Adriel, but Adriel wasn’t a healer). Not everyone says so, but they don’t have to; her mind fills it in automatically. If she didn’t know better, she’d say she was homesick - but of course, she never left her home.

She’d like to see more of Earth, but then she went and made herself indispensable. She’s the best healer Heaven has, these days, so she needs to be on hand to deal with major mishaps that don’t require re-corporation paperwork. Besides, everyone says Virtues should have no reason to actually go planetside. Then again, they hardly think _anyone_ should have any reason to go planetside, including the field agent.

The Almighty must have Her reasons for things unfolding as they have. Somehow, despite everything, Neriel’s never doubted that.

***

Her first reaction when Armageddon is abruptly called off probably shouldn’t be abject relief, but it is. Neriel’s a _healer_ \- she’s never enjoyed the idea of combat. (Rumors have been flying that the field agent refused to take command of his platoon, as well, so she at least knows she’s not alone in that feeling.) There’s also the fact that she’d been dreading having to face down Adriel or Talya or - who is she kidding, she wouldn’t be able to so much as blink before Raphael struck her down, he knows all her weak points.

He knew all her weak points, anyway. None of them remember her now, but she still couldn’t bring herself to do them harm. Not even for a war.

Everyone’s pretty rattled, the next day, which she supposes was unavoidable. They’ve had six millennia and then some to get used to the idea of a war that disappeared into thin air, after all. She can at least focus on getting the infirmary back down to daily-use readiness, rather than ‘imminent, all-consuming combat’ readiness. And it even works, until something odd happens.

She’s running some spare robes back to their usual storage space when she sees an unusually darkly-dressed figure scuttling toward the elevator. That’s a demon, she realises after a moment - doesn’t seem to be a very powerful one, but still, what in the world are they doing _here_?

Then the demon looks over their shoulder (maybe she shouldn’t have been staring so obviously). And their eyes meet. And Neriel drops the robes in her hands.

And Adriel bolts for the elevator before she can so much as squeak.

Neriel’s left staring for a full minute before she gathers her wits and the robes, thankfully before anyone can ask what startled her. She’s not sure she could explain it to most of the others, and as for the Archangels, she’s not sure she _wants_ to explain it.

On her way back from the storage area, she passes the elevator again; this time, the field agent (ex-field agent, after yesterday?) is making his way to it. He examines Neriel for a few moments, then gives her a brief, polite smile before leaving. It’s funny; they haven’t interacted much, as the field agent was very good at keeping himself from major injury, but there’s something faintly familiar about that smile.

She’s too distracted by the first encounter she had to really process the news that the field agent was meant to be there for an _execution_ \- one that he quite obviously walked away from. No one is supposed to know anything about that, so naturally it’s spread through the lower ranks like wildfire. It does explain what Adriel was doing, at least.

It does not, however, explain why _they plainly recognised her_.

The problem eats at her for weeks. Fortunately, the Archangels never ask her about it, being too caught up in pretending the attempted execution never happened and everything is perfectly fine. She doesn’t quite want to know how Uriel would explain being so wrong about this, and she doesn’t want to be dissuaded from investigating.

If no one in Heaven can help her, she’ll have to go to the person who can.

***

Despite her best efforts to prepare for the journey, London is so overwhelming that Neriel nearly discorporates herself from the shock.

Of course, her preparations weren’t as thorough as she would have liked, lest she tip off the Archangels that she was planning a… not-necessarily-sanctioned planetside visit. She read a few publicly available records about the general state of affairs on Earth as compared to Heaven, what things currently look like planetside, and (somewhat to her embarrassment) the ex-field agent’s name. After all, if she intends to request his help untangling this, she can’t keep calling him ‘the field agent.’

The records described Earth as brighter than Heaven, and she didn’t realise until landing that merely saying ‘brighter’ is a vast, vast understatement. The colors are a shock after Heaven’s paleness; the sounds jarring after Heaven’s relative silence; the smells damn near nauseating after Heaven’s sterility. She avoids inadvertently having to request a fresh corporation and spoiling the whole thing - if narrowly - by ducking into a quieter, dimmer side street and leaning against a wall.

At least tactile sensations aren’t completely alien, down here, and filtering out smells seems to come naturally to a human body, but she’s not sure she could bear actually eating anything. She can almost see why no one wants to go planetside if they don’t have to. Still, the answers Neriel’s looking for can be found either here or nowhere, and she didn’t get to where she is today by giving up when things got difficult.

(She’s the best healer Heaven has, these days.)

Her preparations did include a map saved to her official phone - if anyone’s noticed, they haven’t said anything about it - so once she gets her bearings, she looks like any other human tourist, disoriented in a new city and trying to find her way. She witnesses casual cruelty and casual kindness in equal measure, though both may be overshadowed by casual indifference. It’s baffling, how easily humans seem to fall into and out of their private concerns. Perhaps not living under the looming threat of a celestial war has something to do with it.

In any case, she makes her way to her destination easily enough, and eventually comes to a stop in front of the infamous bookshop that’s served as the Principality Aziraphale’s base of operations for some time now, as she understands it. The building is warded to the hilt; there’s a similarly warded Earth vehicle nearby, but Neriel doesn’t think much of that. Nothing is getting into her target that the owner doesn’t want coming in.

She can only hope Aziraphale will hear her out before sending her away, even after the Archangels tried to kill him.

The rambling sign regarding hours of operation in the shop’s front window makes no sense at all, but Neriel takes the vehicle as an indication someone is in, and raises her hand to knock. Barging in would be impolite, not to mention risky after the canceled apocalypse. As it is, a small shock runs up her arm on the first knock (nothing like enough to actually hurt, but she supposes she can’t blame him for adding angels to the ward restrictions, after everything).

Nothing else happens for a long several moments. Neriel’s just contemplating knocking again when the door opens, and she finds herself face to face with the very entity she came to speak to.

“I’m afraid we’re quite-- ah.” Aziraphale’s confidence seems to fall away when he sees Neriel, before he rallies. “Whatever it is they’ve sent you for, tell them I believe I made my feelings quite clear previously.”

“I - no one sent me,” Neriel blurts out, trying to stop him from closing the door in her face. “Please. I need help figuring something out, and I think you’re the only person who can help me.”

Virtues outrank Principalities. She could order him to let her in, in theory. In practice, if she liked giving orders she wouldn’t be the best healer Heaven has, these days. She’d have a platoon instead, or possibly several of them.

Aziraphale does, at least, hesitate before closing the door fully. “There’s no one… elsewhere you could ask?”

“I’m not sure I can rely on them for a truthful answer.” Admitting as much feels scandalous, in a way, but Neriel still vividly remembers Uriel telling her demons wouldn’t remember their time in Heaven. She can’t accept that at face value anymore.

“Well. I suppose you had better come in, then, but if you make trouble I _will_ send you away.”

“I’m a healer. The last thing I want is trouble.”

With that, Aziraphale finally moves aside, opening the door enough to permit Neriel entry. The bookshop proves to be the antithesis of Heaven in every way, dim and cluttered and labyrinthine and… cozy. The atmosphere all but sings of a well-loved place, and it hits Neriel abruptly that she hasn’t felt this kind of love in Heaven in ages. And yet, she’s positive that if she asked the Archangels, they’d tell her she was imagining things, and of course love is present in Heaven.

No wonder Aziraphale gained a reputation for never making in-person reports if he could at all avoid it. The difference in ambience must have been jarring, especially after he established this little nest of human knowledge.

He does not move any further into the store, presumably out of an overabundance of caution Neriel can’t really fault him for, if she’s the first angel he’s seen since he nearly died. “Now, then, what was it you needed assistance with?”

“Something unusual came up, shortly after… well, August. Everything I’d heard prior to that suggests it shouldn’t have happened at all, but the same could be said about quite a bit, lately, and you’re the most likely person to have access to evidence to the contrary.”

“Am I truly?”

“Well, yes. You’ve spent the most time on neutral territory by far.” Neriel’s stalling and she knows it, but now that it’s come time to actually ask the question, she’s really not sure how to phrase it.

Before she can figure it out, someone calls, “Everything all right out there, angel?” from the recesses of the shop.

“Perfectly,” Aziraphale replies. “Just a guest with some, ah, existential questions.”

“Whose existence, yours or theirs?”

Neriel is more prepared than she thought she would be for a demon to saunter out into the front of the shop. This must be the opposition’s field agent - probably just as formerly so as Aziraphale is to Heaven, if rumors about the botched apocalypse are anything to go by. She’s not prepared in the _slightest_ for said demon to examine her closely for several moments - and then smile, wry and fond and achingly familiar.

“Figures the dam would crack with you. Long time no see, Lantern.”

***

Neriel wakes up, which is in itself a new experience, not where she last remembers being. For a terrifying moment she’s afraid she really did accidentally discorporate herself, until she takes in the warm feeling of Aziraphale’s bookshop - still on Earth, then. That’s good; she’s not sure she’d be able to come back if she got caught where she shouldn’t be.

They’ve laid her down somewhere in the building, away from the front door. She has an excellent view of the ceiling. Unfamiliar music seems to be playing from somewhere behind her. When she sits up, a tartan blanket slides off her chest, and she distantly notes it isn’t Heaven’s official pattern.

“Oh good, you’re up.”

One of three people who could definitively answer Neriel’s biggest question of the last several weeks is behind her - leaning against a bookshelf, as it turns out when she turns to look at him. He’s taken off the dark glasses he was wearing earlier, his eyes a dangerous-looking yellow instead of the burnished gold they used to be but every bit as expressive as she remembers.

“...I don’t know what to call you.” She feels silly, saying it aloud, but names are important, and demons were stripped of their angelic names when they Fell. “I was thinking of you all by your old names, but…”

“But that was a long time ago,” her old mentor finishes, not unsympathetic. “Crowley.”

“And… Talya and Adriel?”

“Tarkus and Eric.”

Neriel frowns. “ _Eric_?”

“Well, officially it’s Legion, because they are many and all that, but they picked up Eric a few centuries back and haven’t been talked out of it since. They’ve got enough trouble being in so many pieces, Lantern, let them have this.”

“Oh, I will, it just doesn’t have the gravitas I was expecting, that’s all. Where did Aziraphale go?”

“Making tea.” Crowley shakes his head, brimming with exasperated fondness. “Either he’s leaning on the routine to cope, he’s completely forgotten how bloody overwhelming food is at first, or both.”

It’s a real show of trust on Aziraphale’s part, leaving Neriel alone with a demon. She doesn’t even have to ask who he’s placing that trust in - but then, she probably earned it by fainting when presented with one of the ghosts she was chasing after. Hardly angelic of her, really.

She sighs. “You sure provided a dramatic answer to the question I came here to ask.”

“Suppose I did. I wish I could say I’m surprised they made it a question in the first place. The real shocker’s that someone’s finally chasing it down.”

“Well, if I hadn’t seen Ad-- Eric in the aftermath of the canceled apocalypse, I probably wouldn’t have thought to, but… they recognised me. Uriel said you’d all forget, when I asked, but they _recognised me_ , and I’m tired of grieving my friends when I never really had to.”

Neriel should not be saying this. It’s awfully close to asking questions, and look where that got her friends. But Raphael always was extremely easy to talk to, and that doesn’t seem to have changed just because his name and celestial nature did. Besides, she _is_ tired.

No one won the Rebellion. No one would have won Armageddon, either. She doesn’t want to support any more needless suffering.

It’s then that Aziraphale bustles in with a tray, presumably carrying the tea on it somewhere. “I brought you a glass of water as well, my dear - after fainting like that, you may need it. You are, of course, welcome to the tea if you’d like.”

“Even the water may be a bit much, right now, but thank you for the consideration.” Aziraphale smiles, and Crowley does a rather exaggerated eyeroll, and Neriel feels more at peace than she has in a very long time.

***

Somehow, having already fainted over the matter, it’s easier to back up and explain the full context to the one being present who doesn’t have it. Aziraphale’s face twists in sympathy when Neriel says that she’s the only member of her old friend group who didn’t Fall, and he looks suitably miffed by Uriel’s unfounded assumption about what demons remembered.

“In all this time, no one’s bothered to check?”

“I haven’t exactly had a chance. Virtues aren’t supposed to be interested in going planetside. Besides, they’d never authorise my travel.” Neriel can’t choke down a bitter smile, and isn’t sure she wants to. “After all, I’m the best healer Heaven has, these days.”

Crowley looks away, the closest thing Neriel ever expects to getting an apology (she wouldn’t ask for one, either; he’s far more settled in himself, somehow). “And you know if your ex-bosses ever noticed, they would’ve spread the lie anyway, angel. Not in their best interest to have everyone calling up old friends to see if they still don’t want to smite each other. We couldn’t have tested that wrinkle anyway.”

“You couldn’t?”

“We met in Eden, dear,” Aziraphale says, refilling his teacup. “Crowley maintains that if we’d had even a passing acquaintance beforehand, he would have remembered me. As for myself, I was mostly holed up in the archives until things got messy, so I didn’t really have any friends to speak of.”

“Demons’re about as keen to spend time up here as angels,” Crowley adds. “And getting into Heaven proper - well, name me a more sacred bit of ground than that. Without special dispensation or some serious trickery, a demon would discorporate on the spot.”

“Special dispensation.” Neriel looks down at the glass of water in her hands; she has yet to dare taking a drink, but it’s something to hold during a fairly difficult conversation. “That’s what Eric had, then, for delivering - the Archangels tried to _kill_ you. For what, conscientious objection?”

Aziraphale nods. “Essentially, yes. I may have also posed some inconvenient questions regarding whether Armageddon was truly in line with the Almighty’s will.” He sips his tea, frowns, and snaps, pulling power down from Heaven to reheat the liquid, which Neriel has gathered is meant to be drunk hot.

...Pulling power down from Heaven, despite nearly being executed for direct defiance of orders. To say nothing of asking questions, and Neriel knows full well what the Archangels think of asking questions, after losing her friends to the act.

“And you haven’t Fallen for it.”

“The Almighty must have Her reasons for events unfolding as they have. If Heavenly management has lost sight of the mission in pursuit of the cause, that’s no longer my concern. I did everything in my power to remind them, and they refused to listen.”

Crowley makes a displeased face at the first bit, but it makes perfect sense to Neriel. She wasn’t immune to the questions; she’s just never felt a need to demand the Almighty explain Herself. Not even when it hurt. Not even when her friends were gone seemingly forever. Not even when the Archangels called for a war.

Her loyalty to Heaven, though, has been in tatters since the malicious toad who chopped Adriel into bits (all of which got up and walked away; Adriel could already bilocate, and being forcibly severed exaggerated the trait) was chosen to fill Raphael’s vacancy. She stayed because she thought she had nowhere else to go - but what if she does?

“You’ve given me quite a bit to think about,” she finally says. “I don’t want to impose, but do either of you know of somewhere I could stay while I do? If I return to Heaven I won’t have time, and may not be able to come back.”

Crowley shrugs. “You could stay at mine. I’m here more often than not anyway, and no one’ll look for you there.”

“Are you sure no one will come looking for _you_?”

He just grins in response, and for a moment they might as well be back in the stars.

***

The Earth vehicle (“‘Earth vehicle,’ honestly, Lantern, she’s so much more than that”) outside the shop turns out to be Crowley’s. He insists on taking her over to his base of operations, the entire top floor of a building otherwise occupied by humans. Once she sees how sparsely decorated it is, though, Neriel’s willing to bet Crowley’s true base of operations is his vehicle.

“Took out everything Downstairs used to get in touch, so you should be fine,” he says, “but if anyone gives you any trouble… I’d say feel free to smite first and ask questions later, but that’s never been your style. Come and go as you please, use whatever you like, bookshop’s in walking distance if you need company. Just try not to vanish without telling me, yeah?”

And then he’s gone, and Neriel’s left alone with her thoughts.

She wanders the space - he’d called it a ‘flat’ - for a while, getting used to it. If not for the color scheme and flashes of warmth throughout the space, rarer than in the bookshop or even Crowley’s vehicle but still very much present, it would put her in mind of Heaven’s architecture. If the inscription on what appears to be a drawing of Crowley in a more feminine presentation is anything to go by, the few personal touches he keeps here are extremely personal indeed.

It’s the room full of plants that really holds her attention. They seem petrified of something, the poor things, and Neriel thinks she can just about see where that came from. No one got out of the Rebellion unscathed, after all. She doesn’t need to be an expert on the mind to see the attempt at coping that’s present here.

She spends what turns out to be several days sitting with the plants, talking to an unresponsive audience about everything she’s trying to think through. Something in Heaven is fundamentally broken, in a way that no one who’s still there can see. She doesn’t think the Almighty is the problem here the way Crowley obviously does, but telling the Archangels they’re broken wouldn’t go over any better. Besides, it’s likely one of those scars from the Rebellion that everyone’s intent on pretending don’t actually exist.

What she won’t be asking about any time soon is how Crowley and Aziraphale escaped the wrath of their respective ex-bosses, but having talked to them both in person now, she thinks she knows. Aziraphale would have had little reason to acknowledge her at all, when he was leaving Heaven; nor should his smile have looked remotely familiar. But it did - and now she thinks it was on the wrong _face_.

Clever of them. She’s not sure either of them are quite what they were when they first met each other, but it was a sensible precaution to take, and it’s confused everyone to no end. Still, better not to give the game away and encourage anyone to make a second attempt.

“If they’re not what they once were,” she asks the plants, “what are they now, and what support do they need?”

The plants have no answer, but Neriel didn’t really think they would.

On the seventh day, she stops resting. London is still perilously vibrant, but she thinks she’s a little more used to it now, and she’s just spinning her wheels in the flat anyway. It’s nothing a good walk won’t cure, and with the bookshop’s wards fixed as a beacon in her mind, it’s impossible to get too lost as long as she stays within a few miles of it.

Being out among humanity is still a very odd experience, especially with how little regard they seem to show for others - right up until they do, anyway. Still, as with her initial progress to Aziraphale’s base of operations, the humans are content to leave her to her own devices.

It’s a long while before she actually takes note of the music coming from some of the shops as anything other than a piece of background noise to be tuned out, along with the vehicles and humans’ one-sided conversations. As much as there is to take in, and as unused as she is to dividing her focus like this, she really can’t be faulted - but when it does break through, she’s left wondering what magic she’s been missing by ignoring it.

_What would you tell me, if I could hear you speaking?_ floats out of a shop, and Neriel freezes in her tracks. How many times has her grief for her missing friends led her down that line of thinking? What wouldn’t she have given for another five minutes with them?

Who knew a human could call out her feelings so effectively?

The three or so minutes she’s transfixed until the song fades out feels like an eternity, and then her feet take her into the shop without any real prompting on Neriel’s part. She barely manages to stop short of walking into a display.

The human at the front counter frowns at her. “You all right?”

“I think so. The music that was just playing - do you know who that was?”

“Some American bloke the owner’s mad about. Don’t remember his name offhand, but if you’re after recommendations you’re in the right place. What kinds of things do you like?”

Neriel opens her mouth to answer, then closes it. “That… is actually a very good question. I’m beginning to realise just how much I’ve missed out on.”

“Well, reframe the question, then. What do you _know_?”

“Lizst, Elgar, the _Sound of Music_ soundtrack, and… some similar things.” She’s completely at a loss as to how to describe celestial harmonies to a human, especially when anything they can suggest probably won’t be remotely similar.

The human stares at her in what, when they speak again, turns out to be disbelief. “Fuck, what kinda rock did your parents keep _you_ under? Nobody can survive on fucking ‘Pomp and Circumstance’ alone. Beth! Terry! Got a desperation case we need to catch up on proper music!”

Two more humans come to the desk, and all three of them dive into the task of giving Neriel what they call a proper musical education. (Fortunately, one of them remembers who’s responsible for the song that caught her attention in the first place.) She’s not ready to make purchases just yet - or, indeed, sure how she’s supposed to - but she thanks them for their help regardless, and leaves with a three-page list of music to look into, which she’s assured crosses a number of genres. She’ll have to ask Crowley and Aziraphale where to start, and how to go about it.

Why do the Archangels dismiss humanity as having no value, when they’re capable of generating over an hour’s spirited discussion on what makes up ‘the essentials’ of music? Have they forgotten that dismissing humanity was part of Lucifer’s argument?

***

Rather than return to Crowley’s flat, Neriel takes the list to Aziraphale’s bookshop. They’re going to have a far better idea of how to navigate the vast sea of Earthly delights than she does, having had considerably more practice, and then there’s the question of how to best look like she belongs here when she goes into shops.

Aziraphale, as it turns out, can help with some of the music - and now that Neriel thinks about it, that _was_ an unfamiliar melody playing after she fainted - by way of one of the non-book contraptions in the shop. Most of her list he dismisses as ‘bebop,’ whatever that is. If the little smile that crosses his face when Crowley protests is any indication, it’s an excuse to needle his friend.

“As for dealing with shops and the like, Heaven’s monetary budget is near-infinite,” he says. “You may need to watch yourself with miracles, as they’ve objected to an over-abundance of those in the past, but I find it highly unlikely money will be an object during your stay.”

“If it is, tell me, Hell’s too scared to cut me off,” Crowley adds absently; he’s been looking over Neriel’s list since Aziraphale found what he has, crossing things out and making additions and scribbling notes alongside the humans’ recommendations. (Neriel plans to look into whatever Crowley crossed out anyway, unless it’s something Aziraphale’s playing for her now.)

“I do appreciate it, but you don’t have to go to that kind of trouble for me.”

“I’m choosing to, Lantern, deal with it. Enabling defiance of Heaven and all that, not that I need an excuse anymore. Don’t worry about Queen, either - once you’re better acquainted with the Bentley, she’ll make sure you’re _thoroughly_ introduced, whether you want to be or not.”

Neriel has no idea what that means, other than something to do with Crowley’s vehicle, but she doesn’t get a chance to ask before Crowley calls forth a flat box from nothingness. The box contains a flimsy-looking device he calls a computer - “you could do all this on your phone, these days, but you’re going to want decent speakers if music’s your vice of choice and this way Upstairs can’t pester you about it” - from which she can apparently find everything she’s looking for. Ultimately, she’s sent back to Crowley’s flat with the computer, a brief primer on how to use it, and the modified list of recommendations.

No one in the shop could remember the name of the song that had so captivated Neriel, so it requires trial and error for her to track it down - _considerable_ trial and error, when she starts looking things up and it turns out the human behind it has hundreds of songs to choose from. But she does find it, and after playing it a dozen or so times she moves on, and loses another couple of weeks to her new pursuit, hopping through the list at random and trying whatever catches her eye.

There’s more peace in Aziraphale’s unfailing kindness, in Crowley’s casual assumption she’ll be around long enough to get better acquainted with his vehicle, in the infinite variety of human music that never got an archangelic seal of approval, than Neriel can recall feeling in Heaven since the Rebellion.

Crowley comes by every now and then to water the plants (especially after Neriel’s arrival with the recommendation list made him realise they hadn’t had his scrutiny in a full week), and tell them not to get any funny ideas just because she’s sitting there playing music at them. As far as Neriel can tell, they aren’t getting any funny ideas, but she’s no expert. Other than asking her what she’s tried and what she likes so far (all of it, really), he leaves her to it.

One of those visits is shortly after Neriel goes from vaguely wondering what a floyd is, and why it matters that this one is pink, to having her heart torn out in a matter of minutes. As is often the case when one of these hits her hard, though she can’t figure out why to save her corporation, she plays it over and over; she’s lost count of the repetitions by the time Crowley comes in.

It hasn’t even got to the words yet, but he just nods, sitting down next to her instead of tormenting his plants. When the song fades out, he turns off the computer’s music player and says, “That one’s a bit of a mood, isn’t it.”

Neriel nods, trying to find her voice around the lump in her throat that suggests this blasted corporation is going to start leaking from the eyes _again_. Surely there must be an upper limit to how often it can do that at once.

“I’m not sorry I chased after answers, Lantern. But I _am_ sorry you got stuck dealing with those bastards alone.”

“I don’t - you have nothing to apologise for. None of you do. If anyone owes me that, it’s Sandalphon.”

“How do you figure that?”

“You were always going to go demand an explanation, and Talya was never going to be far behind you. With or without the catalyst we got, sooner or later you’d have lost your patience with the mysterious smiles.” Neriel sighs. “But Adriel… they must have only been wavering, or a holy weapon ought to have obliterated them instead of doing what it did. I’ve thought more than once that if I’d got to them first, that might not have happened.”

“Eric might’ve left anyway, you know.”

“True. But it didn’t have to be in _pieces_. And then - the Archangels never filled Lucifer’s vacancy, I think to remind everyone what happens when you get ideas above your station, but they gave Sandalphon yours and called it an honor for exceptional valor in combat.”

Crowley snorts. “‘Exceptional valor’ my entire arse. Not that I mind not having to see him, but I’ve wondered more than once how he didn’t end up in the pit with the rest of us. Sandy always was happiest when he was hurting someone.”

“He still is.” If Neriel has to interact with any of the Archangels, she tries to make sure it’s Uriel; Sandalphon, though, she outright avoids whenever she can. “I just - I wouldn’t ask any of you to take it back, but… I miss how it was.”

“You’re allowed to. Lucy broke fucking _everything_ when he threw that fit, and we’re all busy pretending it was always like this. Refusing to pretend is good, so long as you don’t start thinking it can be the same again, or get stuck wallowing in it. Come on, Lantern, let’s go for a walk.”

“Weren’t you going to water your plants?”

“Eh, they’ll get by until we’re back if they know what’s good for them.”

As Crowley directs them toward a green space, Neriel finally voices one of the questions that’s been nagging at her in her time planetside. “Do humans only come in two genders?”

“Nah, they just conflated gender and Effort early on, especially since they’re generally stuck with one Effort per body. Stupidest blessed thing they’ve come up with to date - it gets bloody everywhere and hasn’t had the decency to _end_ yet. They’re finally starting to see how flawed it is, but it’s gonna take a while to really work through.”

“That explains why so much of the music only talks about two options.” It doesn’t really explain why so much of it talks about coupling, or like humans would only want to participate in opposite-Effort coupling, but Neriel figures that mystery can be solved another time. “I do think it’d be easier to come to grips with human music if it were more tonally consistent. Half the time the words are absolutely devastating, regardless of what’s backing them.”

Crowley shakes his head. “Oh, that’s not gonna get any easier. They’re not limited to celestial harmonies. Not limited to much at all, in a creative capacity.”

“But they do have such fleeting lifespans.”

“That they do, Lantern. I think they try to make what they have as rich as possible to make up for it, and if nothing else it keeps things a _lot_ more interesting than the others could manage on their own.”

And there’s the purpose of this walk beginning to show itself. Neriel couldn’t place it at first, but that didn’t bother her; Crowley’s always taught like this, starting somewhere that seems completely out of place and circling the point until you can see it for yourself. “That would go some way toward explaining how much more… intense Earth is.”

“Not only that. You know how many commendations I got from Downstairs before this summer?”

Neriel shakes her head. “If there’s any record of that available to me, it’s not something I’d have had a need to look for.”

“Fair enough. Anyway, I got hundreds of the blessed things, possibly into the thousands. Aziraphale never got as many, but that lot always were stingy with praise that wasn’t sung directly to Herself. You know how many of those I had a direct hand in?”

“How many?”

“I could probably count ‘em on my fingers,” Crowley says. “Few dozen more than that where I made a suggestion at the right moment and the fallout got so much bigger than I expected, but mostly, I either told Downstairs I’d had a bigger part in things, or they _assumed_ I did, and the commendation was the first I heard about it. There were at least three times Aziraphale and I got commendations for the same event - it’d be four, but I turned one of those down. You don’t drag children into shit and expect me to be happy about it.”

“Humanity causes that much trouble for itself?”

“They also _solve_ that much trouble for themselves. They’re a force to be reckoned with, Lantern. If they’re lucky, we’ve got a few millennia yet before everyone else cottons on, but they’re going to need some help in their corner. So here we are, traditional spot for people nominally on opposite sides who have more in common with each other than with their superiors to strike bargains. Aziraphale and I are still working out what making our own side means, but that third option is there now, if you want to take it.”

Neriel looks around the green space. She’s not sure she sees the type of meetings Crowley’s talking about, but as he has more experience navigating Earth’s foibles, she’s willing to take his word for that one. She’d wonder how Crowley knew she wanted this choice so badly, if not for the rumors that demons are particularly good at spotting that sort of thing - and anyway, coming back to the bookshop with a list of human music would likely have made it clearer.

If either Heaven _or_ Hell come after humanity, the humans may be overwhelmed before they have a chance to fight back, and that’s not even accounting for the possibility of old enemies putting aside their differences to deal with a common nuisance.

“I have some things I need to see to,” she finally says. “After that, though, we should definitely talk.”

Crowley grins.


	2. it's home, and I will defend it

Neriel doesn’t realise the walk served two purposes until the third time she finds herself retreating to the green space (a ‘park,’ he’d called it) when her dive into human music proves to be too overwhelming to continue right away. When she sees it, she almost laughs aloud.

When you can’t pretend things are what they were, and you know you can’t make what was be what is, you need to take a moment to look at what you’ve got. Earth would not have become what it is without the Rebellion, and all that came after it. And Earth, however dismissively the Archangels speak of it, is _fantastic_. Neriel still hasn’t dared food yet, but otherwise, she’s acclimating to the sensory overload.

She’s caught herself unconsciously relieving humans of minor ailments (or, on one occasion, what would eventually be a very major ailment indeed) on these outings. She’d likely avoid the risk, if she noticed it in the moment, but she never starts monitoring herself for the tendency. If it can make those few humans’ short lives a little easier, she sees no problem.

Besides, Crowley calls himself retired and is still causing minor inconveniences for humans, for the fun of it. Some habits are clearly ingrained, at this point.

The humans have celebrated the beginning of a new year by their prevailing calendar - and Neriel has as well, by watching Crowley and Aziraphale get drunk and ramble about whatever crossed their minds - when one of these excursions takes a different turn. There’s the faint ping of a demonic presence in the park, and she’s pretty sure it’s not Crowley; she follows it, hoping it isn’t trouble.

It isn’t trouble. It’s Eric, and Neriel doesn’t intend to let them get away a second time.

She’s trying to get used to the fact that her entire friend group is using different names, now; it’s hardest when she’s thinking about the Rebellion proper, for some reason. This whole time she’s been worried she would slip up when the time came to put it to the test with someone other than Crowley. Fortunately, in this moment at least, she doesn’t blunder.

“Eric!”

Eric freezes, the twists of hair sticking up from their head not unlike rabbit’s ears twitching toward the sound. “...Neri?”

 _God_ , she thought she’d never hear that name again. “I think maybe we should talk.” Hopefully they won’t bolt again. Hopefully they won’t decide she’s trouble; enough of their split corporations in one place and she’d be beyond outnumbered.

“Maybe we should. Now that I’m not on your turf and all.” Eric relaxes marginally, finally turning to face her after a short eternity. “Bloody scared me up there, you did. Not that that’s difficult these days, but I wasn’t expecting anyone to remember me.”

“You weren’t?”

“No one ever got in touch, did they? We figured either you forgot, or you just didn’t want anything to do with us anymore.”

Neriel laughs - it doesn’t feel like a proper reaction, but it’s the only one she can muster. “The Archangels have been telling us the whole time _you_ forgot. Anyway, with the ranks of healers as decimated as they ended up… I had to sneak away to do this much. I think I’ve only got away with it this long because they’re still discombobulated from the summer.”

“Who isn’t still a mess from that? But wait, if no one knew, how’d you know my name already?”

“I’ve been talking to Crowley.”

Eric nods. “Guess you would find the traitors first, considering.”

Neriel’s not convinced Crowley and Aziraphale truly betrayed anything, at this point, but that’s an argument for another day. Rather than push the point, she leads the way to one of the benches overlooking the duck pond; once they’re both seated, they set to catching up.

Eric’s story is a lot more interesting than hers, but that’s not difficult, considering she hasn’t been able to leave Heaven until now. They’ve been planetside several times, at first only for assignments (“getting shunted into a bunch of pigs and run off a cliff was _not fun_ , let me tell you, I was even more scattered than usual for months after that”) - but they’ve been keeping at least one corporation planetside whenever they could for the last few centuries. When she asks, Eric calls it insurance.

“And then Upstairs wanted some Hellfire for - well, stuff that didn’t work, but you know that by now,” they finish. “Pretty sure I got sent up because one smiting if things went wrong probably wouldn’t obliterate me for real. And by the time I saw you, I’d already been discorporated four times in the last week and made to share a room with the prick who chopped me to bits in the first place, and I’d got _such_ a glare from their field agent when I asked if I could punch him while he was still tied up--”

“Why did you want to do _that_?” It’s another piece of information for the theory Neriel refuses to voice, though, as she has a hard time picturing Aziraphale glaring at anyone like that (Crowley, however, absolutely would), so she files it away accordingly.

“Because I couldn’t very well punch the one I really wanted to. When did that bastard get promoted, anyway? He wasn’t an Archangel Before - what even was he, a Dominion maybe? All I know for sure is he wasn’t another of the Powers.”

“Possibly as low as an Aeon; I don’t remember exactly. He got promoted when there was a vacancy.”

Eric grimaces. “Says great things about their priorities, that. Anyway, I was. Already on edge by the time I saw you, and then you knew me, and I figured bolting before you could throttle me was the better part of valor.”

“Even if I could bring myself to harm you, I was too shocked that _you_ knew _me_ to do anything.” Neriel hesitates; the question she really wants to ask might be too invasive to get an answer, but she has to try. “Did you ever manage to… put yourself back together?”

“Nope. Closest I ever managed was the pig incident. It turns out humans object to a dozen extra voices in their heads, even when they’re all the same voice, and I didn’t exactly know Herself’s _kid_ was hanging about at the time. I’ve tried, before, but it’s like… you know how when you try to put two magnets together at the wrong bits, they sort of push each other away instead?”

Neriel frowns. “What’s a magnet?”

Eric gives Neriel a look very similar to the one she got in the music shop, just before the human there asked what rock she’d been living under. “You really _are_ behind the curve, aren’t you. This’ll be easier to show than explain.” They gesture upward with both hands, producing a matched pair of shapes - black rabbit faces with odd, dark grey circles on the back - and handing one to her. “First step, stick that to the armrest next to you.”

She does; it snaps into place rather abruptly, and requires more force than she would have expected to pry it loose again. “Fascinating.”

“Isn’t it?” Eric hands her the second rabbit face. “Now try to stick this one to the back of that one, and remember I’m having that exact problem every time I try to put myself in less pieces.”

After several minutes of trying to stick the two rabbit faces together to no avail, Neriel frowns, and passes one of them back to Eric (she’s keeping the other, notions of unangelic sentiment be damned). “I see the difficulty.”

“Right? Bilocation was always useful, but this is just bloody ridiculous.”

“You’re not wrong there. I… this would most likely require some research, but I have loose ends to tie up anyway. Would you be averse to me taking a crack at the problem?”

This time, the look Eric gives her is mostly startled, with a healthy side of trepidation and a glimmer of hope she suspects they’re trying desperately to ignore. “Why?”

“Because you don’t deserve to be stuck going about your business in a dozen pieces? Because you’re my friend and I’m a healer? Do I really need any more reason than that?”

“You never did, Neri. I’m just… used to ulterior motives and attached strings, I guess. But yeah, if you think you can get somewhere, you’re more than welcome to try.”

Neriel smiles. “I can’t promise that you’ll be in one piece again, but I should be able to get you in fewer pieces, at the very least. And if you really want to call it a trade, just tell Tal-- Tarkus I want to talk, the next time you see her.”

“I will, but I dunno if she’ll be happy to hear it.”

The thought stings, but it _is_ a possibility she may have to contend with; she’s been unaccountably lucky so far. “Maybe she won’t, but she should at least know the door is open, now.”

***

The relevant research for Eric’s predicament is easy enough to fold into Neriel’s last remaining errands. She suspects the root of the problem lies in the fact that they were attacked with a holy weapon, and Heaven’s archives will be the best source of information on those available. She can swing by the archives, take care of the other things she wants to handle, and that’ll be that.

At least, that’s the plan.

She makes it as far as the main entrance to both Offices from London - a nondescript office building, to human senses - before the plan hits a snag in the form of a problem she has never once had with celestial harmonies, and only occasionally with the _Sound of Music_ soundtrack. _This is where we used to live_ thunders into her mind unbidden, as she looks at the upper reaches of the building, and her corporation’s legs nearly give out. She stumbles over to a bench and sits down heavily (blasted corporation’s leaking from the eyes yet again, she notes distantly), suddenly unable to face going in.

How can Earth music still cut her this deeply when she’s not even listening to it? It’s incredibly unfair. More to the point, how is she meant to tie up these loose ends if she can’t bring herself to go and do them in person?

The more Neriel actually thinks about it, the worse of an idea going up to Heaven actually seems to be. It may be easier to address certain matters in person, but it would also be considerably harder to avoid the Archangels. She couldn’t possibly explain that she’s on an emotional knife’s edge because she keeps getting a song stuck in her head. She’d also have a much harder time leaving again, if they did catch her out. Perhaps it’s cowardly, but she’s not sure she can stand subjecting herself to Heaven’s sterile atmosphere, after the last several months.

Besides, she just got two of her oldest friends back, and at least might have a chance to talk to the third. She’s not going to give them up all over again.

Once her corporation stops leaking from the eyes, Neriel pulls out her phone and sets to texting. This will answer some difficulties, if by leaving more of a paper trail than she’d prefer - but then again, having these conversations in person wouldn’t guarantee a lack of evidence left behind, either. Ofiriel has noticed her absence in the infirmary, but accepts the excuse that she’s dealing with personal business and isn’t sure when she’ll be done easily enough. They can run the place without her, after this long.

To Kemuel, she proposes a trade: access to the Earth monetary fund in her own right, no questions asked about its establishment, in exchange for an answer she’d intended to deliver in person. Kemuel accepts her terms, and once Neriel has a method of payment in hand, she simply appends _they remember_ to the text chain.

Kemuel lost friends to the Rebellion as well, and if the Archangels want to keep on lying about what demons remember, they deserve what they get from this.

That leaves the matter of the research she’d been planning to do, which has Neriel stumped for far too long - and then she remembers the nature of the Principality Aziraphale’s base of operations, and heads back to Soho. The bookshop’s sign professes it to be closed, and she doesn’t have the tacit permission to open the door on arrival that Crowley does, but the wards no longer try to shock her when she knocks.

Fortunately, it’s not long before Aziraphale answers the door. “Good afternoon, dear girl. If you were looking for Crowley, I’m afraid he’s out at the moment, but you’re welcome to come in regardless.”

“Actually, I was looking for you.”

“In that case, how may I be of assistance?”

Neriel waits until she’s stepped inside and the door is closed before continuing. “I was wondering if you had any information on celestial weaponry here.”

“Not in the book collection, I’m afraid. Humans haven’t had much call to write about it, so far, and the little they’ve speculated upon isn’t wholly accurate.”

She tries to swallow her disappointment. It had been worth asking, at least, but this may mean she has to brave the Office after all.

Before she can get too despondent, though, Aziraphale adds, “However, for all I vastly prefer doing otherwise, I _was_ given charge of a platoon back in the day, and with that came a decent amount of knowledge that’s better not written down. What was it you needed to know?”

Neriel explains Eric’s predicament as best she can, and they set to working out what might have happened, and the best possible counters to it. Aziraphale agrees with her theory that Eric’s faith hadn’t truly shattered until Sandalphon butchered them - and identifies the culprit, despite her trying to avoid naming names, but that proves to be useful.

“Sandalphon, to my knowledge, has always favored sundering weapons for celestial confrontations. This wouldn’t have been a run-of-the-mill flaming sword, or the holy fire may have done your friend in regardless. In normal circumstances, sundering would prevent the essence from rejoining itself across that separation before final death set in.”

“Thus making sure his opponent stays dead,” Neriel says. “But Eric wasn’t a full demon yet, and they could always bilocate, and all of those factors taken together meant something unprecedented happened.”

“Quite. This does, regrettably, mean I’ve no idea what may happen when you attempt to unravel this damage. After so long, there’s a very real chance it won’t work at all.”

“Perhaps, but I have a place to start now. Thank you for your help.”

***

The first attempt, in the park around a human holiday that involves a lot of red and pink for some reason, doesn’t go well.

The metaphysical plane, a requirement for trying to sort out a problem with essences of celestial stock, presents Neriel with the fragments of Eric’s psyche, separated by glimmering golden bubbles and surrounded within those bubbles by dead space she’s only just learned to compare to television static. The gold is a hallmark of holy damage, and explains a fair bit about why Eric’s had so much trouble; even if they did trust another demon enough to ask for help, she’s not sure the barriers could be lifted by non-angelic means.

She lowers two of the barriers easily enough, but the fragments they were trapping don’t leave their patches of dead space, unable or unwilling to cross the static. When she shifts her attention to trying to bring the fragments together, the barriers slam back into place, the force of it enough to kick Neriel back into the physical realm.

“Well, something different _did_ happen that time,” Eric says. “I could feel that much.”

“I can take the… magnet part of the problem down. But I can’t do that _and_ bring the pieces of you back together. I think it’s been too long for them to naturally gravitate to each other.”

“So I’m stuck like this?”

“No.” It’s more forceful than Neriel intended, but her corporation aches after being forced back into the daylight. “If I can take the barriers down, the problem isn’t entirely insurmountable, but we’re going to need someone else to help. I’m not sure a demon could handle those barriers, and I really doubt there’s another angel you’d trust poking at you this intimately, so I have to do that bit. We need a third person to guide the pieces back to each other, preferably someone who knows you well.”

“If _only_ you had access to an expert on the celestial mind.”

Neriel’s breath, as habitual lately as it is unnecessary, deserts her. Despite the bitter sarcasm, she’d know that voice anywhere, even after all this time. Eric hadn’t mentioned Tarkus was coming, but then again, it’s possible she didn’t tell them.

She still has the same frizzy, dirty-blonde hair she favored in Heaven; her skin tone is similar, if a bit washed out from a lack of light. Something that looks like armored plating adorns her shoulders (Neriel would bet humans mistake it for a decoration on her jacket), and instead of nails, her fingers end in wicked-looking claws. Most heartwrenching of all, though, are her eyes, cloudy and sightless instead of the sparkling hazel she’s missed for so long.

“Neri? Neri, you still in there?” Neriel’s vaguely aware of Eric prodding her in the shoulder, shaking off the worst of her shock as they add, “A little warning would’ve been nice, Tark, I think you broke her.”

“Well, maybe she should be broken. She can’t just come waltzing back like nothing happened and expect me to be fine with it!”

“I don’t,” Neriel says. “And that’s not what I’m doing. I - they told us you _forgot_ , so if you’re going to be angry with anyone it really ought to be the Archangels, but my inaction based on that bad information hurt you, and I am sorry for that.”

Some of the fight ebbs out of Tarkus, arms dropping from their defensive cross of her chest. “They fucking - do you have any idea how long it’s been since I heard a genuine apology? You can’t just go and do that, either. What do you even want with Eric? Haven’t they suffered enough?”

“She’s trying to help,” Eric says. “She offered and I accepted. I’m tired of being such a scattered _mess_ , Tark.”

“And they didn’t deserve to be hacked to pieces in the first place. I understand what happened, and I think I can at least partially fix it. You can…” Neriel really doesn’t want to finish this sentence, but she knows she has to. “You can walk away after this, if you want. But Eric _has_ suffered enough, and I can’t untangle it alone.”

After a long few moments, Tarkus sighs and sits down next to Eric, as smoothly as if she could see them. “Fine. What are we up against?”

“Holy sundering damage and time. I can either take down the barriers or guide the pieces back to each other, but not both, and I _have_ to take down the barriers.”

“And if you can’t get all of them?”

Eric shrugs. “Less pieces is still less pieces. At this point, I’ll take what I can get.”

“Fair enough. Ready when you are, but don’t fucking touch my eyes.”

“If the first test is any indication, I couldn’t spare the concentration for it if I wanted to.” Neriel would like to see them as they were (whether it affects her vision or not), but Tarkus has clearly adjusted, and it’s not like sight is a requirement to do what’s needed here.

The second dive feels vastly different just with the addition of Tarkus’ bubbling fire; on this plane, she could give an Earth volcano a run for its money, and yet Neriel knows it won’t hurt her.

_I see the problem. I can lay down paths when you have the barriers down, help them clear the dead space. Pick one pair, then a totally different pair, and build into those two as evenly as you can._

_I thought you couldn’t see anything,_ Neriel replies, too giddy from this reunion - this work, like the old days except for where it isn’t - to hold back the comment. Tarkus has a good suggestion, though; if this reaches a point where she can’t continue, it’ll keep Eric’s remaining corporations more balanced.

 _Shut up and do your fucking job._ There’s no true bite to the retort, though, so Neriel ignores Tarkus, save for where she does her job.

Neriel lowers a pair of barriers, and Tarkus burns a path between the fragments of Eric. She couldn’t say whether it’s the heat, the God-awful smell (nothing like brimstone but nearly as strong as some of Earth’s most pungent scents), or something else entirely, but the fragments _finally_ take notice that their environment has changed, and gingerly move toward each other. If any of them were capable of breathing here, Neriel’s sure they’d all be holding their breath.

When the fragments find each other, they merge, doubling in size. Neriel backs away from the barriers, more slowly than she did on the first attempt - which turns out to be a good thing, as the barrier snaps back into place around the larger fragment, more opaque than it was before. Sandalphon just _had_ to go and make this difficult, didn’t he?

The second starter pair of fragments goes the same as the first; when she goes to lower one of the larger barriers, though, Neriel meets more resistance. She has to stake it down, which she was really hoping to avoid, if only because it’s more of her own essence on the line than would be the case otherwise - but this is for Eric, who deserves better than being in a dozen pieces.

The stakes come up easily enough when the fragments have rejoined, at least, and slowly but surely, she and Tarkus whittle the gaps in Eric’s psyche down until they’ve got two halves, rather than a dozen pieces. At that point, Neriel tears at the solid golden barrier around one half with everything she has, but she can no longer make so much as a dent.

 _Stop, Neri._ Eric’s echoing, likely due to still being split in two, but at least they’re comprehensible. _You’re only going to hurt yourself at this rate._

 _But I have to try. If I can’t get this barrier down, then no one can._ She knows Eric’s right. As the barriers have grown in strength, they’ve needed more and more stakes to stay down until the work was done. She can’t get one of these remaining barriers down, never mind both of them. It’d probably take an Archangel, and there sure aren’t any of them with the skill to do this anymore. But she has to try.

_Then no one can. I knew that was a risk. Stop before you discorporate yourself._

_...Good point._ Neriel’s already feeling groggy, and they’re still on the metaphysical plane. What’s going to happen when she returns to physicality? _If I collapse, take me to Soho. You’ll know where to go when you get there._

 _The traitors?_ Tarkus sounds disbelieving, though of what exactly, Neriel can’t be sure.

_They didn’t betray anything. Just trust me on this one._

_If you say so. All right, backing out on three--_

***

For the second time in her existence, Neriel wakes up.

She aches down to her bones, in a way that tells her she’d be feeling it even without the physicality of a human corporation. There’s Earth music playing somewhere nearby, which is reassuring - she over-exerted herself, sure, but she didn’t actually discorporate, and no one forcibly dragged her back. The very idea of reaching out for nearby auras redoubles the ache, so she settles for opening her eyes.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” she tells Aziraphale’s ceiling.

“You reckless fucking idiot. Don’t _ever_ do that again.”

Neriel manages to turn her head; Tarkus is sitting in Aziraphale’s usual armchair, looking like she’s worried sick and hating every minute of it.

“Unless you know anyone else who survived an encounter with a holy sundering weapon, I don’t think you have to worry about that.”

“Not just that. You drew _attention_ with that fucking stunt. I think we only barely beat old Wank-Wings here. The…” Tarkus breaks off, sighing. “Aziraphale dealt with her. If you’d done all that only for us to be obliterated and you stolen again…”

“They may have also found out I made arrangements to stay. I’m sure sinking rather a lot of divine energy into healing a demon didn’t help matters, but it may not have been the only thing.” It’s not that she can’t see Tarkus’ concern, though, for all neither of them want to say it.

If Neriel went to that much trouble only to lose everything again, she’d be making a rather different exit from Heaven altogether.

“You actually want to stay planetside?”

“I felt more love in my first thirty seconds in this building than I have in Heaven since before the Rebellion. They ought to get their own house in order before they start worrying about mine. Besides, none of my friends are ever going to be welcome back, now are you?”

Tarkus snorts. “Wouldn’t go back if I could. Bunch of self-righteous pricks who don’t tell you what they want and then punish you for not doing it.”

“And your lot’s any better?”

“They at least tell us what the unrealistic expectations _are_.”

That isn’t necessarily an improvement, but Neriel’s too tired to argue about it. She closes her eyes again as the music interjects, _I’m more than that. I know I am. At least, I think I must be_ into the silence.

Funny - this doesn’t sound like music Aziraphale would have picked out. She’s not sure it quite suits Crowley’s tastes either, but it sounds similar to stuff she’s enjoyed.

“Where’s Eric?”

“Testing whether they can still split up further without any problems. They said it’d be better for cover-their-ass purposes.”

“If they break themself into half a dozen pieces after all that, they can damned well--”

“Calm down, Neri, I’m fine. Don’t think I’d actually test that without someone looking on, do you?”

Neriel can’t bear the idea of sitting up yet, but she does open her eyes again in time to see Eric’s approach. They’re smiling more confidently than she’s seen in ages, and their skin is randomly criss-crossed with bright green lines, the color of oxidizing copper.

Like they’ve been glued back together with a precious metal.

“As long as it’s in the same barrier, I can split and regroup as much as I like. It’s not quite bilocation, but it’s closer to that, and the lines go away if I’m split. All anyone Downstairs has to see is harmless, disposable Eric. This is _not_ a card I want to play until I have to.”

Put like that, she can understand their urge to experiment a bit more, even if she still wishes they’d waited until she felt well enough to handle possible complications. “How are you feeling?”

“More centered than I have in a bloody dog’s age. You’re a… no, this is somewhere beyond miracle-working.”

“I’m a healer. It’s what I do.” And for once, being the best healer left after the dust settled doesn’t feel like a curse.

None of them are inclined to sleep, so Eric sits down on the floor and they keep talking into the night, so Neriel can at least rest. Aziraphale pokes his head in a few times to see if anyone wants something to eat or drink (they don’t), and mostly, it feels like things used to. It’s not what it was, of course - Tarkus seems to be angry at absolutely everything, after Falling, and Eric is skittish and paranoid - but it’s better than thinking her friends were lost to her forever.

As the sun rises and the ache in her corporation begins to ebb away (of course, it seems intent on lingering in her head), Neriel screws up her courage and says, “I know we can’t just pick up where we left off. It’s been too long for that. But… can we start over?”

“I’m game,” Eric says. Tarkus doesn’t answer for a long while, facing the nearest windows instead of either of them.

“When Eric said you wanted to talk, I was all set to tell you to go fuck yourself,” she finally says. “All anyone’s heard from Upstairs in ages is self-righteous bullshit, and I wasn’t about to take it from you, too. I didn’t - if you’d turned into that, I didn’t want to ruin the memory.”

“I can’t really blame you for that. I wouldn’t want to hear it out of my own mouth either.” Neriel sighs. “I still think the Almighty knows what She’s doing, even if we don’t, but Heaven lost its hold on me in part when Eric got chopped to bits. I wouldn’t ask you to take it back. I’ve just missed my friends.”

“How the entire fuck did you stay up there for so long and not fall into the trap?”

“Barely leaving the infirmary probably had something to do with it.”

Tarkus laughs, nearly as bright as she used to. “Bloody hermit. Well, whatever works. I’m in.”

***

Tarkus gets restless not long after that, and drags Eric out of the shop with her (most likely so she can navigate the shop’s unfamiliar layout without losing face), leaving Neriel alone with her thoughts and a pair of feathers. Neither of them are much more than down, but the promise wrapped up in both of them is worth more to her than gold.

A human would probably assume she’d found the world’s biggest osprey and blue jay, and Neriel would hardly blame them for it. She’s more amused that neither of their wings seem to have changed much - but then, hers haven’t either. She made two cosmetic changes after the Rebellion, to carry her lost friends with her, and as for her mentor, they were already black.

(Raphael had recommended it, to cut down on confusing reflections when working with starlight. Talya had ignored his input in favor of her bright blue, and lived with the complications. No one’s making stars anymore, but Neriel got used to the black over time.)

She wasn’t up to sitting up yet, never mind calling her wings out, when they left, so she’ll have to return the favor another time - but she will. They’ve both guaranteed this won’t be their last meeting, and she fully intends to offer them the same.

Crowley meanders downstairs well into the afternoon, after Neriel’s finally managed to sit up and put the feathers in a safe place. “Hope you already tied up those loose ends you mentioned, Lantern. They’re _not_ gonna welcome you back after that.”

“I did. Incidentally, if you feel like destroying an official-issue phone, I really doubt I’ll be needing it anymore.” She has monetary access, assuming they don’t cut her off after this - and if they do, Neriel will just have to avail herself of Crowley’s thinly veiled generosity.

“I think I could see my way to that. They might think you Fell for real, though.”

“Like they don’t already. I left without permission and healed a demon, and if they heard about my last messages before that, they’re probably blaming me for exposing some of their problems.”

“Aziraphale did say she mentioned you ‘spreading lies.’” Crowley shakes his head. “If that’s really how they want to play this, we can point and laugh when it all comes crashing down around ‘em. How’re you feeling?”

“Mostly better. Hopefully I’ll never have to do anything like that again.” She will, if the situation calls for it, and they both know it - it’s as good as instinct, at this point. But thinking the fallout is worthwhile doesn’t mean she has to enjoy it.

“You’d _better_ not. That was bloody insane.” Crowley grins. “Don’t think I could’ve done a better job myself.”

It feels like Neriel’s face just caught fire (someday she’ll be used to the quirks of this corporation, maybe). “You could have, though. The last barriers--”

“ _Might_ have come down for me, once upon a time, but even I’m not sure about that. Wrestling that shit down as far as you did? You should be proud of yourself. Maybe your friends can manage a slightly less dramatic fuck-you if they decide to hang around for the long haul, though.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t count on that. I wasn’t trying to be dramatic. They might have to.”

“A body can hope. Anyway, once you’re fully back on your feet, we’ll help you get set up on your own. Aziraphale knows some good warding structures, and I can help with the ‘tell angels to bugger off’ part.”

“Don’t tell me you’re kicking me out of your flat already.”

Crowley sputters for a moment, then sees the grin stealing across Neriel’s face and laughs. “You’re always welcome, Lantern, but I’m sure you’d prefer your own base of operations.”

Aziraphale does have some books on the topic of celestial warding, as it happens - apparently humans have managed to stumble into genuine need on more than one occasion - and Neriel spends the rest of her recovery time reading those. She comes away with several ideas about what she’d like to do, provided they’re possible to build into the structure.

“You could certainly restrict access as much as you’d like,” Aziraphale says, when she asks about it. “The only reason I hadn’t was official business - it would have been… commented upon, had Gabriel not been free to enter at any time before last summer. As you need not trouble yourself with official business, I see no reason why you shouldn’t set the wards to suit your preference from the outset.”

“Well, as things stand, there’s only one angel I’d _want_ coming in other than myself.” Neriel doubts the intent-based ward that shocked her the first time she came to the bookshop would be sufficient, and besides, she doesn’t have perceived immunity to obliteration to lean on. It seems wisest not to take unnecessary chances.

Aziraphale smiles. “Then consult with Crowley about blocking all the rest. You’d have to adjust it, should any other individuals prove trustworthy, but an abundance of caution does seem prudent.”

He still hasn’t told her exactly what Michael had to say, while she was unconscious. She’s more and more certain she doesn’t want to know.

“How about making sure specific demons can get in?”

“Oh, that bit’s easy, dear girl. Particularly so if you happen to have personal tokens from them, but it can be arranged well enough if you don’t.”

Neriel can’t hold back a grin, and finds she doesn’t want to.

***

A shop front in the same neighborhood as the bookshop comes up for sale, with almost miraculously perfect timing. Neriel takes Crowley with her to look the place over, partly because he has a much better handle on how to interact with humans, and partly in case Heaven has cut off her monetary access. When he agrees that the building is a good choice, it turns out Heaven hasn’t cut her off; she suspects she should thank Aziraphale for that.

The shop front’s as good as destined to be a medical clinic, once Neriel knows what she’s doing. She’s a healer, after all, and it’ll be a good way to actually start learning how humanity works. Music is a good primer, but she knows it’s not enough.

There’s a living space upstairs from the shop front, and it’s there that she lays down the wards, tucking a small bundle of feathers under the floorboards. She can’t shut humans out, and wouldn’t want to regardless, but the only celestial or infernal entities setting foot on her property without suffering the consequences are the ones she says belong there. Any inconvenience created by having to add others to the wards individually, should that ever happen, will be balanced by the fact that no one can touch her here.

That night, she finds Tarkus lurking outside the front door and scowling.

“You could just come in, you know.”

“Not until I knew the wards wouldn’t bite me.” Tarkus does step inside, though, with that established. “You’re giving me a tour now and another after you have the space set up, and if you fill it with as much shit as Aziraphale has in his base we are going to have some _words_.”

Neriel laughs and obliges, feeling ridiculously pleased when Tarkus declares the building ‘all right.’ That seems to be the highest of praise from her, these days.

“You’re always welcome here. You, Eric, Crowley and Aziraphale. If anyone else who isn’t human comes snooping, they’ll find themselves… well, not here in very short order. I’ve been assured the consequences are memorable, but not fatal.”

“Didn’t know you had it in you, but I’m glad you’re not screwing around. Now we just need to figure out how to keep them from coming after you when you’re not here.”

“We have time to work on it.” Neriel’s not sure how much of a concern it’ll be, but she’d need to know just what Aziraphale said to Michael to be certain. Either way, he at least bought her some time to get herself situated.

“Neri? Tark? I brought curry!”

“We’re upstairs, Eric!”

One of Eric’s non-scattered corporations joins them in short order, holding a paper bag in one hand. Neriel still hasn’t tried food yet, but suspects that’s about to change; even closed, the contents of the bag smell _amazing_.

“How spicy?” Tarkus asks, as they all settle onto the floor (for lack of better furniture) and Eric tears into the bag.

“Some of it’s spicy. But if I don’t miss my guess, we have a spice newbie here--”

“Food newbie,” Neriel corrects.

“Oh, _Neri_.”

Tarkus shrugs. “Well, I’ll gladly throw myself on whatever vindaloo you did pick up, and we’ll see if we can get her to progress past plain rice.”

Before they really get started on the food, Neriel opens up her computer and turns on some Earth music, pleased beyond belief to finally have found her home again.

**Author's Note:**

> Of course [this one comes with a playlist](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL3q-QChl5XwrHoX-cg6wJKSGWuVqaBmbP) \- I couldn't not. XD Every song referenced throughout the story (chapter titles or in-text) is on it, along with some mood music that got me through the writing process.
> 
> (I also did not exaggerate the size of Todd Rundgren's discography in the slightest; he really has done That Much.)


End file.
